On writing

The original owner of my moniker MerlinLived his life in a turgid time,An ancient age, when nutty knightsDid fruitless feats designed to displayTheir sturdy strength and relentless resolveTo dangerous dames who sat and sewed,While smiling sweetly to chivvy their champions.By generating guilt and raising rivalry,These lofty ladies deferred desireAnd courtly love converted lustInto a slightly sad desire to serve.

The incompetent king could not controlA court of nobles, who nibbled and gnawed awayLike rats, reducing his rightful ruling power.So he cooked up countless clever quests,To reduce the risk that idle handsWould dare to do the devil’s work.Strong men astride their trusty steedsSought golden grails, sacred or profaneContaining religious relics of blood or bone,Cloths, cloaks or shrouds, swords or shields.

In the end, their energy exhausted,They’d turn their horses’ heads homewards,To find that pernicious palace plottingOr repulsive rumours had reduced their role,And so would renew their weary climbFrom the foot of the familiar slippery pole.A sword in a stone, a lady in a lakeA Briton, French and Celtic cast,Has generated legends galoreQuite good for such a curious crew.